Book excerpt: “Vagabond: A Memoir” by Tim Curry

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In his memoir, “Vagabond” (to be published Oct. 21 by Grand Central), actor Tim Curry, renowned for such fan favorites as “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” and “Clue,” writes of a multitude of journeys in his life pursuing various channels of creative expression (often in the guise of an irresistible villain), and of the 2012 stroke that nearly ended this vagabond’s adventures.

Read an excerpt below, and don’t miss Ben Mankiewicz’s interview with Tim Curry on “CBS Sunday Morning” October 19!

“Vagabond: A Memoir” by Tim Curry

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Introduction

“Honey, you’re the third Tim Curry to call today,” she said, and hung up the phone.

It was the spring of 1976. By an extraordinary coincidence, I had recently moved into a great apartment right behind the Waverly cinema, in New York’s Greenwich Village. The Waverly was the flagship of several key venues that were experiencing success with a little film called The Rocky Horror Picture Show, whose new life had only just taken off.

I’d been in the stage adaptation, and we’d had an extraordinary run in London and Los Angeles. But when the film was released in 1975, it had bombed rather spectacularly. Less than a year later, it was going through a sort of renaissance, due to some genius marketing and raucous audience participation.

Naturally, I was curious, however hesitant, about this new incarnation. I’d called a day ahead of time, to let them know that I was a member of the cast and to ask if they would be so kind as to reserve a few tickets for my friends and me.

“And who are you?” the woman asked. Her accent was rather aggressive and I caught the distinct whiff of exaggerated boredom in her tone.

“This is Tim Curry.” 

That was when I was informed of the previous two Tims. The receiver dinged, and the line went dead.

I stared at the phone, both bemused and irate by her response. Ultimately, my friends and I showed up anyway (with identification). We didn’t wear special costumes or anything like that — I’m not inclined to do so unless it’s required or earned. Luckily, as much renewed success as the show was now having, it wasn’t terribly difficult to get tickets. We went in and sat toward the back of the theater. I was far more interested in viewing the spectacle than in participating, and the crowd’s engagement was a true delight to behold.

Before long, people started noticing me. A group of girls came up to my seat, giggling, touched my arm or leg, then tittered as they dispersed. It was all rather surreal, especially with the film, the fevered audience participation, and the all-too- familiar music carrying on in the background.

Unintentionally, I’d created a stir among the already animated audience. About a half hour into the film, the woman from the ticket booth of the Waverly — a slightly bedraggled, very unlikely blonde — hustled down the aisle and pulled me out of my seat.

“You are an imposter,” she hissed. “You must leave. You’re a nightmare! And you are not Tim Curry at all — you don’t even look like him!” She pointed at the screen, her long red fingernail trembling with emphasis.

I stood up slowly and, with a mixture of embarrassment and triumph (neither of which were particularly founded), I handed her my passport.

She snatched it, squinted at the photo, looked back at my face, then back at the passport. In the flickering light, I watched her haughty expression collapse. Speechless, she seemed to sort of melt in front of me, evoking a wicked witch who had been assaulted by a bucket of water.

Aware I was now on a stage of sorts, I steadied myself and waited for her response.

“Ohhh my God. Oh, Mr. Curry. I didn’t … Please just … please sit down.”

I took my passport back and gestured to my friends.

“I wouldn’t dream of it!” I said, and promptly strode out of the cinema.

     
By definition — as one who has professionally pretended or masqueraded onstage, onscreen, and into a microphone — there is an argument to be made that I have been a career imposter for most of my life.

But if you ask me, there’s a much better word for my vocation and identity, a word that carries me back to my earliest days.

Vagabond.

Vagabonds rove. We travel about and pick up work wherever we go. We wander, drift, stagger, wink. Reluctant to be pinned down, we’re enticed by risk, restless if we linger, fueled by curiosity and a sense of wonder.

Vagabonds learn, often from a young age, that indeed time is fleeting. As is fame — a fairly worthless pursuit, really. We are less startled by life’s unpredictable shifts than those who choose to remain safe and settled. We often practice our trade in varied locations.

Those of us with itinerant upbringings or similar proclivities often have no choice but to adapt and reinvent ourselves. Over and over and over again. We rely on charming exteriors and don’t mind saying so, leading us to project an inflated sense of self-confidence. We feel deeply but are perhaps less inclined to express our true selves to others — because our relationships so often prove to be ephemeral.

Of course, these qualities don’t apply to all vagabonds. I’m not sure they’ll apply to me tomorrow. But it feels about right today.

In Shakespearean times, people of the stage were considered rogues and vagabonds. I always rather liked that. I presume that such labels came about because of actors assuming manifold identities, traveling from one town to the next in pursuit of new audiences and a bit of coin here and there. How can you trust somebody, or truly know somebody, who appears as a king one day and a jester the next? What does it mean when neither role is the true identity of the person, and when that very person might be gone the next day? These entertainers with ever-changing faces and varied costumes were presumed to be scoundrels, not regarded as honorable or honest members of society.

That part doesn’t define me, of course.

I’m very trustworthy.

You believe me, don’t you?

    
Over the course of my life, my vagabond blues, hopes, and highs have found their way into varied channels of expression, different creative boxes from which flashes of my real self could emerge. Through my songs. Delivered upon the stage. Exhibited on screens. Cultivated in my homes and gardens. Re-envisioned, attached to, and filtered through more voices and personas than I can recall.

Much of this book has involved returning to those characters, the ones who defined my professional life. As there is a piece of me who either exists in or understands each of the roles we’ll be revisiting, surveying them together will hopefully yield a colorful, curious mosaic of who I am, beneath the cosmetics and costumes.

Looking in the rearview mirror is neither my instinct nor my preferred way of being. I’d rather get on with it and keep moving forward. I have never been one to dwell on past performances any more than is required. I do not snatch memorabilia from my films to keep it displayed around my house like glistening ashes. I find little reward lingering in nostalgia. Living gig to gig for the better (and worse) part of half a century, I have grown accustomed to appreciating and accepting lessons offered, then looking forward to the next challenge.

That’s the vagabond’s way.

And yet, it hasn’t escaped my notice that others have jumped at the opportunity to make their own assumptions. I have been described as everything from a confounding sex symbol, to a home designer, to a rock ‘n’ roll singer, to an imposter, to the prince of Halloween, to a paralyzed tragic case, to a dead legend.

Contrary to village gossip, I am still very much alive.

So, while that remains the case, I believe it’s my turn — and my privilege — to malign my own reputation.

     
Why expose myself now? After all, I’m quite comfortable in the shade, and it would be easy enough to remain there. But with time, the thought of sharing my story stayed on my mind and felt just risky enough to intrigue me as a creative pursuit. I’ve also developed increasing respect for the characters I’ve played over the course of my life, characters about whom I’ve spent no small amount of time answering (and avoiding) questions.

More than anything, the challenges presented to me by being alive, by the pandemic, and by sundry health issues have offered an appalling amount of time to reflect. Strewn amid those reflections has been a recurring fantastical notion: Maybe it’s time to write my story. Before I could even finish musing about what that might mean, self-doubt had persistently reared up, chuckling malevolently: You’ve got a nerve.

I’m prone to heed that voice, which has so often intervened, posing the deceptively simple question: Who do you think you are?

However, as loud and obstructive as that voice has been throughout my life, generations of you (yes, you) have continued to flatter me with curiosity and kind attention. In doing so, you have given me permission to mute my self-deprecating instincts — or at least to hold them at bay.

Today, I am physically unable to take you on a vigorous vagabond’s adventure, due to a stroke I endured in 2012 that has limited my capacity as an active tour guide. But my mind and most of my memories have remained intact, and within them exist a multitude of journeys perhaps worth sharing. Before I can no longer be bothered to recount them, I humbly invite you into my stories of living across various environments: seaside living, country living, city living; on the road, on the stage, crossing borders and blurring them, ever in a vagabond state. I’ve loved inhabiting most of those settings, and — with some notable exceptions — enjoy remembering the times I’ve had.

You should know what you’re in for, however.

I’d hate to leave you dissatisfied.

Before we raise the curtains, before the elevator descends, know this:

This will not be a master class. I have stories to impart, not explicit lessons to teach. You may glean profound takeaways from where I’ve been, how I got there, whom I’ve met, what I’ve done, or how I finagled my way into repeatedly being cast as an irresistible villain. Even so, my words are not meant to serve as instructions on how to act, sing, become a voiceover artist, or remain resilient in the face of unforeseen physical hardship. In part, because I do not believe that I have mastered any of those things. Furthermore, since I was a young boy, I’ve been dubious of anyone who claims to be an authority. Far be it for me to adopt an expert’s stance now.

I must also warn (or assure) you that while there are scraps of my nature in all of my characters, I am none of them. That sentence feels too ludicrously obvious to put in writing, but the distinctions between who I really am and who I’ve pretended to be as an actor have proven to be a source of great disappointment to some audiences. It has not caused me much personal distress, beyond the periodic necessity to deter stalkers.

Nor will this be a juicy Hollywood tell-all. Not because my moral compass won’t allow it, or because I haven’t had ample run-ins with juicy celebrities — but simply because I find such books immensely dull and highly susceptible to gathering dust.

I also won’t be dishing out lurid details of my love affairs. I guarantee you, if it matters, that I have experienced true love, true heartbreak, and everything in between, including no small amount of wreckage. Which, naturally, helps inform who I am. I have loved and been loved and I hope you have, too. But I’m not interested in your romances. And specifics about my affairs of the heart or the bedroom are — respectfully — none of your f***ing business.

With those caveats taken care of, I sincerely hope you enjoy the escapades, illusions, and contradictions I’ve collected recklessly over the course of my vagabond days.

I trust you’re now shivering with antici – I’ll play along; I’ll SAY IT – pation …

Let’s get on with it.   

       
An excerpt from “Vagabond: A Memoir” by Tim Curry, to be published on October 21, 2025. Copyright © 2025 by Cameron Music, Inc. Used by arrangement with Grand Central Publishing. All rights reserved.   

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